Flipped Thursdays of rotten rye
long slates and grills smoking
a fingered ceiling lapping up a drink of vapor
spigots twining sap
from stretched wood walls.

A glass eye in the spiderweb cracked forehead
steering wheel ribs
a thatched company of lungs
rafts of rubber seeds
fans pushing water
heavy hairs of the mud smitten depths
and viny hallways.

Pock marked skull in the stony mirror
of a solitary rack
the tadpole ridden streamers
of an astral hole.